“She asked for me by name?”
“She told Mrs. Braithwaite your measurements are approximately the same as hers.”
Mrs. Braithwaite ran the private modeling salon and looked after the store’s in-house models and, by extension, acted as den mother to all the single salesgirls. She was the type of woman who’d found her signature look early in life and stuck with her pearls and taut bun for the next thirty years. She was a no-nonsense, all-business working woman, but sympathetic when crises befell her girls.
“Please report to Mrs. Braithwaite without delay.”
Bullocks Wilshire had been the first store in Los Angeles to feature a private salon where shoppers could view garments on a model. The oval salon was similar to the one Gwendolyn had taken Errol into, but larger, with ample room for a model to turn and twirl across the muted green carpet.
Gwendolyn let herself into the anteroom and found Mrs. Braithwaite checking over a rack of beachwear: swimsuits, a blouse-and-shorts set, several straw hats, and a light cape.
“Ah, Miss Gwendolyn, get into that navy blue suit first. Pair it with the big straw hat and whichever pair of sandals fits you best. You need to be quick about it, the customer is waiting.”
Gwendolyn slipped out of her dress and took off her jewelry, leaving on her corset and stockings. “Who is it, do you know?”
“Mrs. O’Roarke.” The name meant nothing to Gwendolyn. “After you’re done with the swimsuit, put on this sun cape with the green suit, then come out in the shorts and blouse. Don’t forget the lace parasol.”
Gwendolyn adjusted the broad straw hat Mrs. Braithwaite handed her and slipped into the first pair of footwear that looked her size. She stepped through a dramatic doorway that was topped with a pair of large sculpted scrolls, then paused in the light on the other side for a moment before taking three steps down to the salon’s floor. In time to the dainty string waltz piped in over the loudspeaker, she crisscrossed the thick carpeting while Mrs. Braithwaite gave a running commentary about the comfort of the swimsuit’s wool blend and its sturdiness against the rigors of lengthy exposure to sun and sea.
As she was making her final turn, Gwendolyn caught a quick glimpse of Mrs. O’Roarke and guessed that she was hovering on the cusp of handsome and matronly. Her starched hair was too uniformly brown to be natural, and her large bosom had a menopausal swell, but she was reasonably slim around the waist and sat on the loveseat with the upright posture of a ballroom dancer. She wore an approving smile but was not looking at the clothes. Instead, her eyes were fixed on Gwendolyn’s face.
After two laps around the salon, Gwendolyn retreated into the changing room and switched into the ivy-colored swimsuit and satin-lined sun cape. Gwendolyn wished she had time to study the cape; it was beautifully crafted and was exactly the sort of thing she’d love to have in Chez Gwendolyn.
Out in the showroom, she took a couple of spins to show the cape’s fullness, then heard Mrs. O’Roarke ask Mrs. Braithwaite if the model could come closer so she could feel the material. As Gwendolyn approached, she could smell the woman’s perfume: gardenia, very expensive.
As the woman reached out to feel the hem, something brushed against the tips of Gwendolyn’s fingers. Not soft, like skin, but smooth, more like—there it was again! Paper. She felt the women press something into her palm. The customer shot her a lightning-fast look—Take it—before turning to Mrs. Braithwaite. “Very nice,” she said. “I’d like to see the after-sun ensemble now, please.”
Back in the changing room, Gwendolyn unfolded the note hidden in her hand.
I have heard that you might be able to supply me with nylon stockings. I am willing to pay any price. If you can help me, give your chin a little tug and pat down your hair the next time you come out. My telephone number is Crestwood-2636.
Lester’s golden rule filled her ears: Only sell to someone you have a direct connection with.
She thought about how Mary Ford didn’t question the three-dollar price tag when Gwendolyn handed over her nylons in the Canteen office. If this Mrs. O’Roarke could afford expensive clothes like these, she could afford three bucks a pop. Maybe even four.
No, no. Don’t be greedy. Follow the rule.
She grabbed the parasol and thought about the wartime accommodation shortage, and how the residents of the Garden of Allah had been informed that their rent was going up significantly. It was going to bite into the cache she was socking away.
I’ll decide when I go back out there. I need to see her face again.
Gwendolyn made her entrance and flicked open the lace parasol. Smiling blandly at the woman, she drew on her years of experience selling cigars and cigarettes at the Cocoanut Grove to size up this customer in one glance.
The woman returned a prosaic smile. She wore the conservative Chanel suit of a respectable socialite, but her eyes were sharp and etched with knowing. This was not a woman fooled by the silver screen.
Mrs. O’Roarke watched closely as Gwendolyn paraded back and forth, twirling her parasol over one shoulder, then the other. But how do you know I sell black-market nylons? This was all so unnerving. She hadn’t seen this woman at the Hollywood Canteen, and she certainly wasn’t part of the Garden of Allah crowd. What to do? What to do?
Gwendolyn started a third stroll past Mrs. O’Roarke when she heard Mrs. Braithwaite say, “Thank you, Miss Gwendolyn. That’ll be all.”
Gwendolyn returned to the doorway for a final pose. She risked a last-minute peek at the seated woman, whose knowing look had been replaced with a beseeching plea.
You may be a plant by management, she thought. You might even be an undercover cop. But I need to expand my market. This woman and her friends would pay three or four bucks, maybe even five.
Gwendolyn reached up and tugged her chin, then patted her hair before disappearing through the ornate doorway and withdrawing into the anteroom. She tossed the parasol to the side and sat down on the only chair in sight. She pressed her palms to her eyes and wondered what the hell she’d just done.
CHAPTER 15
Jim Taggert’s office was spacious enough for a large desk, several brown metal filing cabinets, a bookshelf crammed with literary classics and history textbooks, a square meeting table with four matching chairs, and his own water cooler. But until he stepped into it on the last day of 1942, Marcus had never noticed how daylight filled it like helium in a hot air balloon; it was so bright that it almost hurt his eyes. Then again, he figured, maybe I’m unusually sensitive right now.
Jim looked up from the script in front of him. “Close the door behind you.” He pointed with a freshly sharpened pencil to one of the seats at his conference table. “I’ve just come from an Oscar powwow with Mayer and Mannix about which flicks we want nominated.” He bit into his lower lip for a moment. “William Tell is not one of them.”
Marcus wasn’t surprised. Not after that humiliating scene at the premiere two months ago.
“I went to bat for you,” Taggert said, “but they didn’t take the hint, or pretended not to.”
Marcus smiled grimly. At least the waiting game was over. “Which ones are they going with?”
“Mrs. Miniver and Woman Of The Year.”
Miniver was an obvious choice—it was MGM’s biggest success for 1942. And if the studio wouldn’t back its number three grosser, his William Tell, Marcus was pleased it was Woman Of The Year.
The residents of the Garden of Allah liked to bask in a ray of that picture’s glory. The previous summer, screenwriter Garson Kanin had holed up in his villa with his brother Michael, fellow screenwriter Ring Lardner Junior, and Katharine Hepburn, and cranked out the script in five days with the help of typists and food sent in from Chasen’s. It cost the studio more than they’d ever paid for an original screenplay, but none of it would have been possible, Gardenites told themselves, if they hadn’t restrained from throwing a party for five straight days to give the team the peace and quiet it needed.
Marcus got to his feet. “Th
anks for letting me know.”
“One more thing.” Jim pushed an envelope to the edge of his desk. “Looks like it might be your first fan letter.”
It didn’t happen often, but from time to time the writers received mail, usually from some youngster who spent his small-town summers writing stories that were overly praised by an indulgent teacher. Marcus was the only screenwriter who had been with MGM for more than five years without getting one.
He picked up the envelope and headed for the door. His fingers were on the handle when he stopped. He stared at the return address, aware only of his own shallow breathing.
Jim’s voice jolted Marcus. “Something wrong?”
“Did you notice the return address?”
* * *
Marcus filled his glass with whiskey, then propped the envelope against the bottle and stared at it while he sipped. The penmanship was methodical and deliberate. The paper, a very pale shade of pink, was weighty—she’d used the good stuff. The only jarring detail was the postage stamp—a white eagle emblazoned with the patriotic maxim “WIN THE WAR,” affixed at a hurried angle.
There was a knock on the door. “Anybody home?”
He opened it to find Kathryn, Gwendolyn, and Alla standing before him. Unlike most New Year’s Eves when they’d be dressed to the hilt for a night at Ciro’s or the Mocambo, all three were wearing their scruffiest rags.
Kathryn looked him over. “You’re not going like that, are you?”
Marcus looked down at his work clothes. “No—I just—something came up.”
Gwendolyn peered past him to the letter leaning against his bottle of Four Roses. “Not bad news, I hope.”
Marcus ushered the three women inside. “I haven’t opened it yet.”
Kathryn picked up the envelope and read the return address. “You didn’t tell me you wrote to her.”
“I didn’t.” Marcus tinkled the ice in his glass. “I started several letters, but always got stuck.”
Alla eased herself onto Marcus’ sofa. “May I ask who we are talking about?”
“My sister,” Marcus told her. “Doris, the youngest one. She’s tracked me down.”
For a while last year, Marcus had kept seeing his sister in the faces of strangers. It was almost to the point of hallucination, which, Marcus kept telling himself, was ridiculous because he hadn’t seen Doris in nearly fifteen years. She was ten when he slunk out of town on the midnight train without telling her goodbye.
“How come you haven’t read it?” Gwendolyn asked.
Marcus plucked Doris’ letter out of Kathryn’s hand and tapped it against his knuckles. “Chicken, I guess.”
“But the night of my party last year,” Gwendolyn said, “you told us how much you miss your family.”
“And I meant it. But now I’m not so sure I want to dredge up the past.”
Alla grabbed his hand, then gently pulled him down on the sofa beside her. She studied him intensely with her violet eyes. “My boy, your sister cared enough to write. The least you can do is read it.”
Marcus knew he looked like the Garden of Allah’s village idiot for getting what he wanted, then no longer wanting it.
“You want us to clear out?” Kathryn asked. “Come join us at the victory garden planting party afterwards.”
Marcus decided he was glad they’d come over. “How’s about you all stay while I read it out loud?”
“Or we could do that.” She deposited herself on his easy chair.
Marcus threw back what was left in his glass. While the smooth whiskey burned his throat, questions came lurching toward him like a gang of Frankenstein’s monsters. Did Doris remember him? Did his parents ever tell her why he left? Did they know she’d written? Were they even alive?
He perched on the edge of the chair and pulled out the letter. It was only one page, and for a moment, he felt vaguely embarrassed. All that angst for a one-page letter?
“Dear Mr. Adler,” he read out loud. “Either my name will mean something to you, or you are sitting there thinking, Who is this Doris Adler person and why is she writing to me? A couple of weeks ago, I went to see a movie called William Tell and I nearly went kerplunk when the credits came on and there, under ‘SCREENWRITER,’ was your name. I realize there’s probably more than one Marcus Adler in Hollywood, but in case you’re the Marcus Adler who was my most favorite brother in the whole wide world—”
Marcus stumbled over the last few words, then broke off altogether. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked at Kathryn, Gwendolyn, then Madame. Each of them wore the same tender smile.
“—in case you’re the Marcus Adler who was my most favorite brother in the whole wide world, and who disappeared back when I was still a young girl, and who we’ve never ever heard from, I thought I would take a chance and write to you. If you are my long-lost brother, please write back and tell me how you are. And if you’re not, thanks for a terrific movie anyway. You did a great job. Signed, Doris Adler.”
He kept his eyes on the paper as he folded it over and reinserted it in its matching envelope. Gwendolyn was the first to speak.
“How old would Doris be now?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And her return address, is that the house you grew up in?”
“Nope. Same town, though.”
“She signed it Doris Adler,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “She’s twenty-five, not married, but no longer living at home. Sounds like a working girl to me. I like her!”
“What are you going to do?” Kathryn asked.
Marcus deposited Doris’ letter on the coffee table and jumped to his feet. He felt like someone had sucked the air out of the room while he was otherwise occupied. “I’m going to get into my working duds and meet you down at the victory garden.”
* * *
Since the night the Garden of Allah opened, parties—large and small, planned and impromptu—had always coalesced around the swimming pool. And it was a good thing, too, because Garden parties usually disintegrated into an unruly mess with at least one or two partygoers falling into the pool, drunk and often only partially dressed.
But since Nazimova started the victory garden a few months back, the parties had shifted to a patch of dirt where all sorts of vegetables sprouted through the earth. The residents, though, saw no reason why planting potatoes or picking peas couldn’t be celebrated with a bowl of Dottie Parker’s Pickled Party Punch and several trays of canapés. Furthermore, if a planting party should coincide with New Year’s Eve, then so much the better. Even the National Victory Garden Institute couldn’t argue with that.
When Marcus approached, the setting sun had departed, leaving behind a star-sprinkled sky. Thirty people had already gathered in and around the victory garden, most of them in dungarees or old clothes, kneeling in the dirt planting bulbs of garlic and onions and winter lettuce seeds. At each corner of the garden, someone had set up a table with a hurricane lamp, a bowl of punch, and a bottle of whiskey or bourbon.
A cluster of people standing off to the side burst into laughter. It was Benchley and his sidekick, actor Charlie Butterworth, and Charlie’s girl, a knockout named Dusty. They were bent over laughing, something about one of the ingredients in Dottie’s Pickled Party Punch. Behind them, Gwendolyn huddled with Bertie.
Marcus watched as Bertie pushed a wad of bills into Gwendolyn’s hand. It was the first time he’d witnessed Gwendolyn conducting a deal, and he wondered what Kathryn thought about this whole scheme of Gwennie’s. It was odd they hadn’t spoken about it yet, and he decided to bring it up the next time they were alone. A little to the side, Marcus noticed Errol slumped in his chair away from the main gathering, staring into his drink.
It had been a hell of a year for him. He’d suffered a mild heart attack during the filming of his latest movie, Gentleman Jim. By the time it came out, Errol had been charged with statutory rape and audiences were snickering at his final line of the movie: “I’m no gentleman.” It was the thi
rd Warners movie in a row to gross more than two million, but he didn’t seem to care. Even the formation of a support group called the American Boys’ Club for the Defense of Errol Flynn—ABCDEF for short—did little to lift his spirits. He was normally one of the first of the Garden residents to show up at a party and one of the last to leave, but the Errol Flynn slouched in Nazimova’s patio chair was not that person.
“Yoohoo!” Nazimova was kneeling in the middle of the garden next to an aluminum watering can. “I could do with a helper here.” A significant blotch of dirt matted her hair.
Marcus joined her on the ground and wiped off as much of the dirt as he could. “What do you need me to do?”
“After I bury a bulb, you water it—but not too much.”
She pushed at the rolled-up sleeves of her raggedy men’s flannel shirt, leaving a trail of mud up each arm. “That was a lovely letter from your sister.” Marcus poured some water into the little hole she had just filled in. “It would be a shame if you didn’t write her back.”
He followed her up the garden another foot. “Who said I wasn’t going to write her back?”
She frowned that very Russian frown of hers, managing to look sternly maternal. “You don’t know which version of your life you want to share with her, do you? The authentic one or the version approved by the Breen Office.”
The Breen Office was the organization tasked with the job of enforcing the Motion Picture Production Code. It was a long list of do-this-but-don’t-do-that commandments to which the studios must conform or risk being denied approval for distribution. It ensured that no American movies contained direct references to sex, drugs, nudity, extended kissing, or ridicule of the clergy. Their rules forced the studios to present American life in its sunniest light, regardless of whether that bore any resemblance to reality.
Marcus scooped up a mound of freshly turned earth. He brought it up to his face and inhaled deeply. The smell—so fresh, so raw—reminded him of his family’s yard back in McKeesport, of mud-pie summers and leaf-burning autumns.
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 10